Scarecrow (36 page)

‘
Thirty seconds
 . . . 
you're doing well
 . . .'

Then another red circle flashed.

And this time Schofield was too slow.

The screen beeped angrily.

 

SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): FAILED DISARM ATTEMPT RECORDED.

THREE FAILED DISARM ATTEMPTS WILL RESULT IN DEFAULT DETONATION.

SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): RE-ACTIVATED.

‘Damn it!' Schofield yelled, eyeing the grenade on the table beside him.

And the white circles began their blinking sequence for a third and final time.

‘
Twenty-five seconds left
 . . .'

But this time Schofield was prepared, knowing what he had to do. His hands now moved fluidly across the screen, punching the white circles as they blinked, breaking left every so often as a red circle flashed.

‘
Ten seconds, nine
 . . .'

The sequence became faster. The darting moves to the reds became more frequent—to the point, Schofield thought, where it became a test of his reflexes.

‘
Eight, seven
 . . .'

His eyes stayed focused on the display. His fingers kept dancing. Sweat trickled into his eyes.

‘
Six, five
 . . .'

The lights kept blinking: white-white-red-white-red-white.

‘
Four, three
 . . .'

Bing
—a message sprang up on the screen:

 

SECOND PROTOCOL (RESPONSE PATTERN): SATISFIED.

THIRD PROTOCOL (CODE ENTRY): ACTIVE.

PLEASE ENTER AUTHORIZED DISARM CODE.

‘
Two
 . . .'

Schofield typed ‘1-2-3-
ENTER
' on the keypad. The numbers appeared on the smaller screen.

‘
One
 . . .'

Bing
.

 

THIRD PROTOCOL (CODE ENTRY): SATISFIED.

DEVICE DISARMED.

Schofield exhaled, slumped back in his chair.

The door to the room opened. Lefevre entered, dove-clapping.

‘Oh, très bien! Très bien!' he said. ‘Very good, Captain.'

Two burly French naval commandos covered Schofield on either side.

Lefevre smiled. ‘That was most impressive.
Most
impressive. Thank you, Captain. You've just reassured us of the verity of Majestic-12's claims. Not to mention the merit of this disarm system. I'm sure the Republic of France will find many uses for it. It really is such a shame that we have to kill you now. Gentlemen, take Captain Schofield back up to the hangar and string him up with the other one.'

 

Schofield rose into the air, his legs and arms spread wide, star-like.

He stood on the forward lifting prongs of a forklift, one foot on each horizontal prong, while his wrists were handcuffed to the vehicle's vertical steel runners.

The forklift was parked in a corner of the
Richelieu
's deserted main hangar bay, behind the exhausts of several Rafale fighter jets. Seated in a semi-circle in front of it were the three French military officers and the DGSE agent, Lefevre.

‘Bring in the British spy,' Lefevre said to one of Schofield's guards.

The guard hit a button on the wall nearby and the steel wall beside Schofield suddenly began to rise—it was in fact a door, a great fighter-sized steel door—revealing darkness beyond it.

Out from the darkness came a second forklift, on which stood another captured individual, crucified in the same manner as Schofield.

There was only one difference.

The man on this second forklift had been thoroughly tortured. His face, his shirt, his arms—they were all covered with blood. His head hung limply over his chest.

Lefevre said, ‘Captain Schofield, I'm not sure if you have met Agent Alec Christie of British Intelligence.'

Christie. From MI-6. And the bounty list.

So this was where Christie had got to.

‘Over the last two days, Mr Christie has been a fountain of information for us regarding Majestic-12,' Lefevre said. ‘It seems that for the last eighteen months, he has been well placed in Loch-Mann Industries as a personal bodyguard to Mr Randolph Loch, the Chairman of M-12. But while Mr Christie was watching Loch, we were watching Christie.

‘However, in one of his more lucid moments last night, Mr Christie told us something of concern. He stated that Randolph Loch has been most displeased of late with one of the younger members of M-12, our friend Jonathan Killian.

‘According to Mr Christie, Randolph Loch commented several times that Killian was quote, “pestering him with this follow-up idea”. It appears that Mr Killian does not think Majestic-12's plan goes far enough. In light of your own investigations, Captain Schofield, do you know anything about this “follow-up idea”?'

Schofield said, ‘Killian's
your
friend. Why don't you ask him?'

‘The Republic of France does not have friends.'

‘I can see why.'

‘We have useful acquaintances,' Lefevre said. ‘But sometimes, one must watch one's acquaintances as closely as one's enemies.'

‘You don't trust him,' Schofield said.

‘Not an inch.'

‘But you give him protection, sanctuary.'

‘For as long as it suits us. It may no longer suit us.'

Schofield said, ‘But now you're worried he's playing you.'

‘Yes.'

Schofield thought about that for a moment.

Then he said, ‘One of M-12's Chameleon missiles is aimed at Paris.'

‘Oh, please. We know that. We are
prepared
for that. That is the very idea behind my country's involvement with Majestic-12. That was why we provided them with the bodies of the Global Jihad terrorists. For while America, Germany and Britain suffer catastrophic losses, France will be seen as the only Western nation to have defeated this threat.

‘Where New York, Berlin and London will be lost, Paris will stand tall. France will be the only nation to have successfully shot down one of these terrible terrorist missiles.

‘It took America three whole months to retaliate for September 11. Imagine how shell-shocked they will be when they lose
five entire cities
. But France, France will be the nation who beat off these heinous attacks. The only Western nation who moved fast enough. It will make us—strong and capable and completely unhurt—the world's leader in this new Cold War period.

‘Captain Schofield, our friends in Majestic-12 want money out of all of this, because for them money is power. The Republic of France does not want that kind of power—we want something far more important than that. We want a global power shift. We want to lead the world.

‘The 20th century was the American century. A sad bankrupt time in the history of this planet. The 21st century will be the French century.'

Schofield just stared at Lefevre and the generals.

‘You guys are really messed up, you know that,' he said.

Lefevre pulled some photos out of his briefcase, showed them to the elevated Schofield.

‘Back to Killian. These are photos of Monsieur Killian during his tour of Africa last year.'

Schofield saw standard newspaper pics: Killian standing with African leaders, opening factories, waving to crowds.

‘A goodwill tour to promote his charitable activities,' Lefevre said. ‘During that tour, however, Killian attended meetings with the leaders and defence ministers of several strategically significant African nations: notably Nigeria, Eritrea, Chad, Angola and Libya.'

‘Yes . . .' Schofield said expectantly.

Lefevre paused, delivered the punch. ‘Over the last eleven hours, the Air Forces of Nigeria, Eritrea, Chad and Angola have all scrambled, with over two hundred fighter planes converging on airfields in eastern Libya. Now, taken individually, these air forces are relatively small. Taken together, however, they make up a veritable aerial armada. My final question for you, Captain, is
what are they doing
?'

Schofield's mind raced.

‘Captain Schofield?'

But Schofield wasn't listening. He could only hear Jonathan Killian's voice in his head, saying: ‘Although many don't know it, the future of the world lies in Africa.'

Africa
 . . .

‘Captain Schofield?' Lefevre said.

Schofield blinked. Came back.

‘I don't know,' he answered honestly. ‘I wish I did, but I honestly don't.'

‘Hmmm,' Lefevre said. ‘That is exactly what Mr Christie said, too. Which might mean you are both speaking the truth. Of course, it might also mean that you need some more persuasion.'

Lefevre nodded to the driver of Christie's forklift.

The driver fired up the engine and drove the vehicle a few yards to the left, so that Christie—raised up on the forklift's prongs—was positioned right behind the thrusters of a nearby Rafale fighter jet. The driver then quickly jumped out of his seat and ran away.

A moment later, Schofield saw why.

ROOOOAAAARRRRR!

The fighter's engines rumbled to life. Schofield saw another French soldier standing in its cockpit.

The battered and ragged Alec Christie looked up at the sound of the colossal noise, and found himself staring into the yawning rear thruster of the Rafale fighter. He didn't seem to care. He was too beaten, too weary to bother straining at his bonds.

Lefevre nodded to the man in the cockpit.

The man hit the plane's thrust controls.

Instantly, a shocking tongue of white-hot fire blasted out from the rear thruster of the Rafale, engulfing the immobile Christie.

The heat-blast battered the British agent's body like a wind-fan—the piping-hot air blasted his hair backwards, ripped the skin off his face, burned his clothes in a nanosecond—until ultimately it tore his body to pieces.

Then, abruptly, the burst stopped and the hangar was silent again.

All that remained of Alec Christie were four grisly quarters, charred and disgusting, dangling from the forklift's prongs.

‘This is very bad,' Schofield swallowed.

Lefevre turned to him. ‘Does that refresh your memory at all?'

‘I'm telling you, I don't know,' Schofield said. ‘I don't know about Killian or the African countries, or if they have anything in common. This is the first I've heard of them.'

‘Then I am afraid we have no further need for you,' Lefevre said. ‘It is now time for the Admiral and the General to have their wish and watch you die.'

And with that, Lefevre nodded to Schofield's forklift driver. Schofield's vehicle moved forward, stopping alongside Christie's charred forklift, in front of the Rafale's second rear thruster.

Schofield gazed into the dark depths of the thruster.

‘General?' Lefevre said to the old Army officer, the man who had lost an entire paratrooper unit to Schofield in Antarctica. ‘Would you like to do the honours?'

‘With pleasure.'

The General stood up from his chair, and climbed up into the Rafale's cockpit, glaring at Schofield all the way.

He leaned into the cockpit, reached for the flight stick, his thumb hovering over the ‘
AFTERBURN
' switch.

‘Good-bye, Captain Schofield,' Lefevre said matter-of-factly. ‘World history will have to continue without you. Au revoir.'

The General's thumb came down on the ‘
BURN
' switch.

 

Just as a gigantic explosion boomed out from somewhere above the main hangar.

Klaxons sounded.

Warning lights flashed to life.

And the entire aircraft carrier was suddenly awash with the red lighting of an emergency.

The General's thumb had frozen a millimetre above the burn switch.

An ensign ran up to the Navy Admiral. ‘Sir! We're under attack!'

‘
What?
' the Admiral yelled. ‘By whom!'

‘It looks like a Russian fighter, sir.'

‘A Russian fighter?
One
Russian fighter! This is an aircraft carrier, for God's sake! Who in their right mind would attack an aircraft carrier with a single plane?'

The
Black Raven
hovered level with the flight deck of the
Richelieu
, raining gunfire and missiles down on the fighter planes parked there.

Four missile smoke-trails extended out from the Sukhoi's wings and then separated to pursue different targets.

One Rafale fighter on the deck was instantly blasted to pieces, while two anti-aircraft missile stations were obliterated. The fourth missile whizzed into the main hangar bay and rammed into an AWACS plane, destroying it in a billowing explosion.

Inside the
Raven
, Rufus flew brilliantly.

In the gunner's seat behind him sat Knight, swivelling around in the plane's 360-degree revolving rear chair, lining up targets and then blazing away with the
Raven
's guns.

‘Mother! You ready?' Knight called.

Mother stood in the converted bomb bay behind the cockpit—armed to the teeth: MP-7, M-16, Desert Eagle pistols; she even had one of Knight's rocket launcher packs strapped to her back.

‘Fuckin'-A.'

‘Then go!' Knight hit a button.

Whack!

The floor of the bomb bay/holding cell snapped open and Mother dropped down through it, whizzing down on her Maghook's rope.

Inside the French aircraft carrier's control tower, chaos reigned.

Comm-techs were shouting into their radio-mikes, relaying information to the captain.

‘—damn thing got under our radars! Must have some sort of stealth mechanism—'

‘—They've hit the anti-aircraft stations on the flight deck—'

‘—Get those fighters to the catapults
now
!'

‘Sir! The
Triomphe
says it has a clear shot . . .'

‘Tell it to fire!'

In response to the order, an anti-aircraft missile streaked out from one of the destroyers in the carrier group—heading straight for the
Black Raven
.